Lolo crossed his arms again and sat for some time, eyes on the far wall, until he finally said, ‘Then it’s not Salva Serenissima you want to know about.’
‘I do. I met some people who are involved with it – or who will be – and I’m curious about their motives, I suppose.’ Brunetti shook his head at the vagueness of this, even to himself. ‘She – the Contessa – wants to leave the city better than she found it. I don’t think there’s any doubt about that.’
‘But?’ Lolo asked.
‘But some of the people around her . . . I don’t understand what they want.’
‘Who are they?’
‘An English banker and his companion. I think he’s a fool and she’s not. He seems to want to help, so long as it gets done quickly.’ Brunetti suddenly remembered his wine and took a sip.
‘And he gets the credit for it?’ Lolo asked.
‘Do you know the people I’m talking about?’
‘He’s short and insignificant looking, and she’s got very large brown eyes and doesn’t say much?’ Lolo asked.
Brunetti nodded.
‘You’re right about both of them,’ Lolo agreed, then as quickly asked, ‘But what of it, so long as they give the money and something gets done?’
Brunetti laughed and answered, ‘I see what three months in Argentina have done to you.’
Lolo at first looked surprised, then he tried to look offended, and then he smiled. ‘A lifetime in Venice has done more.’ Brunetti laughed at this, making it unnecessary for Lolo to explain. Instead, he asked Brunetti, ‘Anyone else?’
‘Not among the foreigners.’
‘Who, then?’ Lolo asked and picked up his glass.
‘There was a Venetian at the dinner; he flattered the Contessa terribly. A bit younger than us, beard like the last Tsar.’ Then, reluctantly, because part of him did like the Contessa, Brunetti added, disappointment in his voice, ‘She seemed to like hearing it.’
‘Ah, Vittori,’ was all that Lolo said.
‘Doesn’t he have one of those double-barrelled names?’ Brunetti asked.
Lolo snorted into his glass. When he had recovered, he surprised Brunetti by asking, ‘Tell me the name of someone your father worked for.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The last name of someone who employed your father, for any job at all. Tell me his name.’
Brunetti thought of the fruit and vegetable vendor who had, when his father was in a period of relative calm, given him a job delivering produce to restaurants. ‘Camuffo.’
‘Then you could call yourself Guido Brunetti-Camuffo with as much right.’
‘You mean he invented it?’
Lolo crossed his arms and leaned back. Lapsing into contemplative mode, he stared at the ceiling and then said, ‘I always wonder, if people like him are capable of adding a name to their names, what are they capable of adding to their bills?’ He let his chair slam back to the floor and went on. ‘It’s really closer to the truth to say he borrowed the name,’ Lolo said with barely disguised contempt. ‘His father worked for the Ricciardis: gardener or something. Everybody knows that.’
Brunetti, who hadn’t known, asked, still pondering the thought of having gone through life as Guido Brunetti-Camuffo, ‘But why would he do that?’
Lolo reached across the table and gently ruffled Brunetti’s hair. ‘You’re wonderful, Guido, really wonderful. Your wife has the bluest blood in the city, and still you just don’t get it.’
‘That this stuff is important to people?’ Brunetti asked indignantly.
This time, Lolo actually pushed his chair back until it banged against a chair at the next table. He looked across at his friend and finally said, ‘It’s one of the reasons I love you, Guido, and why you’re such a friend.’
‘Because I don’t understand?’
‘No, because it doesn’t matter to you. What people are called.’ Then, after a pause, ‘What I’m called.’
Brunetti looked at the peanuts and, needing something to do, stuck his finger into the bowl and moved the nuts around, shifting them from one side to the other and then back again. When he had them arranged to his satisfaction, he looked at Lolo and asked, ‘What else can you tell me about him?’
‘Only that Demetriana’s not the only elderly woman he flatters.’
‘To get what from them?’ Brunetti asked, familiar with the race of man.
‘Work. Dinner. Invitations. Trips. Whatever happens to fall from the table, or whatever he can nudge just a little bit until it falls from the table and lands near his feet.’
‘I see,’ Brunetti said. ‘What do you think he wants from the Contessa?’
‘Work, probably,’ Lolo answered, making it clear that the subject did not interest him much.
‘Can you tell me anything else about the granddaughter?’